The Sunday Letter

How it started

In March 2020, with the city shut and the 28 tram rattling past my window with nobody on it, I started writing a short email to friends every Sunday morning. There were twelve of us on the list. Each one had a story from my week, a recipe I’d actually cooked, and one thing I’d read that I couldn’t stop thinking about.

Rosie forwarded it to her whole office. By that summer there were four hundred people I’d never met reading about my soup, and I had to learn what a sign-up form was.

I kept the shape because it worked. One of each, nothing more. I write it on Saturday evening on the balcony, read it aloud once to catch the clumsy bits, and send it with my first coffee on Sunday.

Where it is now

About 6,000 readers, still free, still every Sunday morning. Some issues are written on trains, some at Senhor Abel’s counter while he weighs my tomatoes, and one memorable one in a laundrette in Ponta Delgada.

Paid members keep it going. They cover the hosting, the occasional train ticket and an alarming amount of olive oil, and in return they get members-only essays and films. The letter itself stays free, and always will.

Two recent issues to start with: figs, rain and a borrowed bicycle and the first cold morning. The rest live under The Sunday Letter.

What I’ve learned

Readers write back more than I ever expected — corrections to my Portuguese, their own grandmothers’ recipes, photographs of the books I recommended propped against their teapots. Those replies are the best part of my week, and the reason I’ve never once wanted to skip a Sunday.